Part 2: 'I got a man down here ... I think he's gonna die!'

Eric R. Shimer

Harry Fisher/Morning Call file photo

Vietnam veteran Eric R. Shimer shows his medals in his Bethlehem law office in April 2005. They include two Purple Hearts and the Combat Infantryman Badge. Behind him are maps of South Vietnam, where he fought.

Vietnam veteran Eric R. Shimer shows his medals in his Bethlehem law office in April 2005. They include two Purple Hearts and the Combat Infantryman Badge. Behind him are maps of South Vietnam, where he fought. (Harry Fisher/Morning Call file photo)

Eric Shimer

THE STORY SO FAR: Bravo Company, including Bethlehem native Pfc. Eric R. Shimer, has set out to engage a North Vietnamese Army regiment that is increasing operations near LZ Center.

We were hardly elite troops, but five of the seven of us had been together for more than three months, which was unusual under the tour-of-duty system. Of greater importance was that four of us could be relied upon to move and fire on instinct without waiting for orders. This was more than twice the norm for our draftee army.

The squad was a cross section of America. There were six in addition to me. Sgt. Lowery "Larry" Cuthbert, a quiet, conscientious black kid, was the squad leader. He was new in the country. Spc. 4 Lupe Tobias was another recent replacement, but this was his second tour of duty, and he knew his way around. His face resembled an Aztec stone carving, physical proof of his Mexican origin. When we needed diversion, Lupe would entertain us with biting satire -- in a Swedish accent.

The rest of us were Pfc.'s. Frank Juarez was senior in country. He was a quintessential Californian who looked like Anthony Quinn and talked like Sonny Bono. Bob Boyd, a self-described swamp rat from the bayous of Louisiana, was a quiet, dependable soldier. In a world of frayed nerves, I never heard him say a nasty word about anyone. Ray Wilcox was a rough-hewn Michigander who had a 5 o'clock shadow five minutes after shaving. For someone who really hated being there, Ray was a warrior. Joe Paparello was a baby-faced kid from Connecticut. He was our youngest member and retained the exuberance of his Italian heritage.

Caught in a kill zone

At 0745, we saddled up and headed west through the trees. As soon as we broke into the open, Cuthbert put us into a rough skirmish line. Ray Wilcox and I were on the right flank.

Before we could proceed, a grenade from an M79 flew over our heads and exploded in front of us. It seemed to have come from Alpha Company. A profane exchange made sure our supporting company had its signals straight.

I could smell Vietnamese, but the still air and the stench of decomposing blood and bodies from the previous day had prevented me from getting a fix on distance or direction.

Because I provided the most individual firepower in the squad, I was up and looking for targets. I did not like the lay of the land, flat and open. Ray was close behind me. As I turned to confer with him, I felt a tug on my right arm and a push on my chest at the same time I heard the shots. I had walked past a North Vietnamese in a spider hole several meters to my right and rear.

In the time it took for my face to hit the ground, my brain recorded several discreet sensations and thoughts: "(Extreme rage) That's heat from a muzzle blast! You just walked in front of him, at what, two meters? You (idiot)! Four rounds full auto from an M16? Only one hit. What a bad shot! Why doesn't it hurt? Dad will take this very hard Sorry, Dad (Extreme sadness). "

Someone rolled me over onto my back and propped me up on my pack. Doc Knoll, the platoon medic, was quick to assist. His face turned to the color of his uniform as he saw my ribs through the hamburger that had been my chest. My first prayer was: "Please don't let this kid throw up on me. " The prayer was answered, but I had to guide him through the diagnosis and treatment. He put pressure dressings on the damaged parts and tried to immobilize my right arm. Then he went off on another house call.

To prevent drug abuse, only the senior medic in the company was allowed to carry morphine and other narcotics. At that moment, the senior medic, Doc Loftus, had been cut off while making his own house call to Joe Paparello. I never did receive morphine in the field.

At 0815, Lt. Turpin stood over me and radioed "Dustoff," the call sign for a medical evacuation helicopter. When Dustoff failed to respond promptly, the lieutenant called again and tried to prod them with the urgency of the situation: "I got a man down here. He don't look good! I think he's gonna die! " I gave him a finger and a grin. He gave me a wink and a shrug.

The wounds were serious, but not immediately fatal. The bullet had shattered my right humerus, but somehow it had missed the brachial artery. It then struck the rib under the armpit and deflected around the rib cage. The sternum split in half and sprang back the left ribs connected to it. The flesh was shredded and torn from the ribs. A number of ribs had broken from the impact, which they transferred to the upper lobes of the lungs. This bruised the lungs; they hemorrhaged internally but otherwise stayed intact.

I thought that I could survive if I stayed focused. So I concentrated on keeping my pulse rate low and my breathing steady, and staying conscious.

Dan "Ski" Gudschinsky and Steve Hall had volunteered to take me back to a clearing to await the Dustoff. They rolled me onto my poncho and half carried, half dragged me to the clearing.

We were under fire most of the way. They unceremoniously dropped me on a rock when a rocket propelled grenade (RPG) passed above me and between them. That hurt less than the attendant bounce that nearly left my right arm behind. I do remember hurling a few vulgarities at them, but I was so focused on survival that I had no recollection of the RPG or of who had dragged me out of the kill zone. By then there were more casualties, so Ski and Steve left me in the care of George Beason, whose squad, like theirs, was in reserve and went back for more casualties.

Beason usually was a cheerful black kid. Now he was somber. He knelt down and propped me against his lap and chest. This allowed my lungs to work more easily and the blood collecting in them to fill the lower lobes first. I would need the extra time to breathe. We waited.

Every so often George would speak to me to be sure I stayed conscious. Periodically bullets tore through the brush nearby, but George never flinched and kept me elevated. The tropical sun started to burn off the haze. We waited in the growing heat. George shared his canteen with me and poured some over my face to keep me more comfortable. Breathing grew more difficult and painful as the morning wore on. Here the absence of morphine had allowed me to stay focused on breathing.

Casualties mounted. By 1100 there were 13 of us awaiting evacuation. But the Dustoff had not come. The NVA had several heavy machine guns arrayed around the clearing to prevent unarmed helicopters from getting to us. Capt. Cooper made more urgent calls for Dustoff, but the NVA fire was unabated.

Finally, at 1159, in a cloud of the dust that gave it its nickname, the helicopter came in.

George picked me up and dumped me onto the cargo deck of the aircraft and then ducked out of the way of the hail of fire directed at the helicopter. The big red crosses on the helicopter presented irresistible targets. The copilot was hit and slumped in his seat as we lifted off; a bullet grazed my left side.

The pilot flew us to the brigade medical facility. It resembled the set of "M*A*S*H." Two medics put me on a stretcher, carried me into the surgery tent and set the stretcher on sawhorses. The surgeon swung over his bright light and took a closer look while a medic poured tinted surgical alcohol all over my chest. It felt cool and refreshing. This triggered a thought: Hold it, Shimer. This kid is pouring alcohol onto raw flesh, and it feels cool and refreshing? Boy, are you (messed) up! At which point I finally lost consciousness.

A pretty nurse smiles

For Aug. 20, 1969, B Company reported 15 casualties, one-sixth of its people. My squad bore the brunt of the losses. By the end of the day I was in a coma. Ray Wilcox was killed as he went after the Vietnamese who shot me. Joe Paparello was killed as the platoon worked its way out of the ambush. Lupe Tobias was shot in the face but survived. Somehow Lowery Cuthbert, Bob Boyd and Frank Juarez were unhit. Lt. Turpin was killed going after the NVA who had shot me and then Ray, leaving Rich Senske, a Pfc. from Philadelphia, as platoon leader.

Several days later I awoke in an alien environment. It was cool and smelled clean.

Fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling. The ceiling was corrugated galvanized steel with a familiar I-beam logo painted on it. I was in a bed with sheets. At the foot of my bed stood a very pretty Army nurse who gave me one of those you-just-made-my-day smiles. She spoke over her shoulder, "Hey, he's looking around. "

I had to spend three months in traction at an Army hospital in Japan before arriving home in time for the holidays. I had much for which to be thankful, but I still had four months of rehabilitation in and out of plaster and dressings at Valley Forge General Hospital before all of my wounds stopped seeping.

The Medical Corps discharged me from Valley Forge in March 1970. Originally I had thought that my tour of duty had ended in August, but the clerk at the finance desk assured me that "tour of duty" included hospital time because of wounds. So I guess I had done my full tour after all.

The worst kind of pain

The effects of war continue long after the shooting stops. The men who earned the Combat Infantryman Badge did so during the prime of life. The results of the physical abuse inherent in performing their duties quickly healed. Without ever having been wounded in action, combat infantrymen, like other athletes, experience the resurfacing of the injuries of youth brought on by middle age.

The heavy packs compressed varying numbers of spinal discs and the soft-tissue pads of all the joints from the shoulders to the toes. Over the years, all these tissues begin to shrink and lose elasticity. Arthritis seems to settle into any previously damaged bones. All the sprains incurred during youth leave weak spots to bedevil simple acts such as standing up and sitting down, walking and throwing baseballs with the kids.

For the casualties of combat, the onset of middle age starts earlier, lengthening the duration of aches and pains and impeding the normal functions of the body. The shrinking and hardening of scar tissue, for example, can put pressure on nerves, blood vessels and internal organs. They also stretch connecting muscles to the point of creating chronic muscle spasms.

Worse than the physical pain, however, is the emotional pain. The normal reaction to the violent death of a buddy is first to feel shock, then numbness, and then grief. The worst reaction comes last and continues for a very long time: guilt. For what? For being alive when others, who are just like you, are taken by violent death.

Several years ago, an elderly couple came to my law office to have their wills prepared. After exchanging small talk, the husband noticed the shadow box displaying my military decorations on the wall. He tugged his wife's arm and pointed to it. He explained for her, "You see that blue pin with the silver rifle and wreath? That's the only [decoration] that matters a damn. " And then he started to cry.

When he regained his composure, veteran to veteran, he told me that he was the sole survivor of his 12-man squad. More than half a century had passed, and he still felt the pain of the loss and the guilt of having survived when his buddies had not.

I knew exactly how he felt. The faces of Craig Newell, Ray Wilcox, Joe Paparello and Jim Turpin are fading with the passage of time, but the memory of their loss remains, 36 years and counting.

Shimer, 58, practices law in Bethlehem, where he has lived all his life. Besides the Combat Infantryman Badge, his medals include two Purple Hearts. In the mid-1970s he was an elected member of the Northampton County Government Study Commission and drafted the home rule charter that is still in effect. He has been a guest lecturer for the Bethlehem Area School District since 1993. He also teaches history, French, German and English as a substitute at the district's secondary level. He and his wife, Bobby, have a daughter, Susan, at Shippensburg University, and a son, William, at Moravian College.